


On Loneliness And Immortality

by RHGroeninga



Series: Thedosians on Earth [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Futures Alistair, Angels, Arguing Castiel and Crowley, Assassin's, Castiel is over a million times older than anyone else in this story, Crossover Pairings, Demons, Dimension Traveling, Drunk Alistair, Elves, Ezio is older than Crowley, F/M, Flirting Ezio, Gen, Hunting, Immortality, Isu Technology (Assassin's Creed), Loneliness, Magic, Meta, Modern world, Multiple Crossovers, Related to other fanfics, Stealth Crossover, Templars, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RHGroeninga/pseuds/RHGroeninga
Summary: “It’s lonely, isn’t it, being immortal?”
Relationships: Alistair/Female Hunter (Supernatural), Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Female Tabris (Dragon Age)
Series: Thedosians on Earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698811
Kudos: 1





	On Loneliness And Immortality

**Present day, Los Angeles**

She waited for him on a rooftop. In the shadows, out of sight, watching the people swarming the sidewalks far beneath her; bright headlights of cars halting for a red flash light, then accelerating as it turned green. High towers lighting up a one and a half mile away, lights spreading out across the hills as far as the eye could see, literally outshining the stars in the sky above. It was a mesmerizing sight to see.

He crept silently beside her before he spoke. “So you are the one they call ‘Little Red’. ‘Little’ seems to describe you well, but all I see when I look at you is a white Assassin’s hood.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, from underneath the deep hood he could barely see the tip of her pointy nose, yet he sensed the warm smile that had appeared on her face.

“I earned that nickname when I first arrived at the base wearing a deep red cape and hood, not willing to pull it off. The funny thing is, it got stuck before anyone actually discovered I’m a ginger.”

“Really?” he lowered his voice to a lustful growl, “They say I have a weakness for red-heads…”

She snorted. The sound was not unfriendly, but it was slightly more sardonic than before. “Sorry. Not interested.”

“ _Cazzo_ ,” the Italian swore. “Well, maybe you’re ugly,” he then reasoned, “Maybe that’s why I have yet to see your face.”

That’s when she finally turned around so they could look each other in the eye.

“ _Cazzo,_ ” he swore again. She was beautiful.

“You are quite the looker yourself.” she stated appreciatively, roving her eyes up and down, taking in his expensive suit, broad shoulders and handsome face.

He pouted. “And yet she says she is ‘not interested’. What should a man do nowadays to get laid?”

She laughed. (She had a beautiful laugh.) “Not try to get in her pants before you have even seen her face?” she suggested.

He sighed wistfully. “Perhaps…”

It seemed they were going to get along for this mission.

…

**Somewhere in a cabin, late at night**

“ _There once was a bear who drank a lot of beer. They all called him the beer bear. And then that bear started making beer. And they all called it beer bear beer. -_ _h_ _iccup._ _Then there was a bear who drank a lot of beer bear beer. And they all called him the beer bear beer bear._ _Then…_ ” The large man groaned loudly before muffling another hiccup. “Beer bear beer bear… _beer_ …” he murmured, having difficulty keeping the words straight in his head. But since he did not actually make any beer, (unfortunately,) he guessed it didn’t really matter. He was just the beer bear.

The men and women in the nearest town, where he bought his alcohol, called him Grizzly nowadays, for his large, strong frame and grisly occupation. The Grizzly beer bear.

Grizzly bear… beer?

Rarw.

He took another swig.

He liked this bottle. He really did. It was nice and cool against his chest, though his hands were getting a bit cold from holding it all the time. His how maniest was this, anyway? And was that even a word, ‘how maniest’? Perhaps it was in Spanish.

Alicia could’ve told him. Her parents had come from Honduras, she spoke a bit of Spanish.

Only Alicia was dead.

All he’d ever wanted was a family. A wife, maybe a few kids. Was that so much to ask? Plenty of other people had it. People, bringing their kids to school. Getting hugs – around their legs, because children couldn’t reach so high. Having a wife in their bed at night, to close their arms around…

Having a _bed…_

Tears sprang in his eyes as he took another swig from his bottle.  Here he was, laying on his couch in his half rotten cabin in the middle of the forest. There was barely enough walls to keep the animals out at night, let alone the icy wind. The small stove he’d bought at a  Walmart somewhere on the way was barely enough to keep the chill from his bones – even if he’d have had any night clothes, he had to keep on his sweater and old winter coat not to freeze  to death  at night.

O n the table before him – nothing more than a wooden crate – between the many empty bottles, lay a shotgun,  a sniper  rifle, two pistols, a machete, a gleaming, intricate broadsword seeming to belong in another era  entirely  and a frankly impressive array of combat knives.  That morning he’d killed two shapeshifter s .  One shot through the head with a silver bullet, one impaled by his broadsword from his speen into his heart.  There had been a lot of blood, but he’d washed it all carefully away once he was outside the thirty mile radius of the scene –  safely away from the police who would be surely searching the area, even now, for the killer . 

He knew how to clean his equipment  of blood.  He knew  _that_ .  He had  a lifetime experience doing so.

Most people  here would be disgusted, or terrified.

This peaceful land was wonderful, yet foreign to him. He fit in as badly as the broadsword reflecting the flickering light of the bare light bulb.  He’d wanted a family, he’d always wanted that – he’ d rather have a normal job  and a normal, quiet life  with healthy, smiling children,  home-baked apple pie and a picket fence .

B ut the truth was that he had been raised for war since childhood – taught in bloody battle, and little else.  And he was good in it –  it had taken  him  much too long to realize that, but  in hindsight he’d probably been one of the most skillful warriors of his homeland, let alone in this strange world where war and battle was something that only happened in far away places and on  TV .

He’d considered going to Afghanistan in the beginning – now  almost  eight years ago – where he might not find the quiet, peaceful life he longed for, but where at least he’d be useful,  doing good for the people there.  It was Alicia who’d introduced him to hunting  instead – vampires, werewolves and demons prowling the streets, creating nightmares and destroying lives.  Most people she would’ve warned away from the hunter life, but she knew where he’d come from, she knew what he was.  A warrior,  trained and tested against all sorts of horrors. And as always Alicia had been right, the hunter life suited him like a glove.  So they’d hunted together, they’d lived together, they’d slept together, they’d made  love and married and while there had always been too much blood and gore in their lives for it to be anywhere near perfect, it was as good as he was ever going to get. They’d been happy.

U ntil he’d been too slow, and one of the goons of the witch they’d been hunting had shot Alicia  just as he’d drained the witch’s magic.  The witch had escaped as his wife had died in his arms.

A nd now he was alone. 

Even more so than he’d ever been before he entered this foreign world.

Before he’d met Alicia.

Before he’d met Dani…

Utterly,  undeniably alone.

More than he’d ever been before in his  already  lonely life.

…

**The American Men Of Letters Bunker**

“It’s lonely, isn’t it, being immortal?”

Castiel ventured to ignore the demon’s goading. It was to be expected: only a day ago Crowley had been the undisputed King of Hell, going toe to toe with Naomi and the Winchesters in a struggle for the Word of God. Now he was trapped in the Man of Letters dungeon, unable to defend his throne from usurpers – and with Abaddon on the loose again, Castiel did not think it would take her long to try and take his place – and most of all: almost entirely human. Sam had attempted curing Crowley of his demonhood by injecting his own blood into the demon – an agonizing process for both of them – to finish God’s trials and close the gates of Hell, but Dean had made him stop just before he succeeded as the process was killing Sam. The whole ordeal had left Sam on the brink of death and it had left Crowley in an aching, grouching mess somewhere between humanity and demonhood.

Not that Crowley had ever been a particular _nice_ or virtuous human. There was a reason he’d ended up in hell in the first place, wasn’t there?

“You see the world go on and on, people laughing, crying, falling in love, getting children, fulfilling their dreams and yet you know you have no place in it, it is not for you. Out of reach, forever, no matter how hard you try because you are _not_ mortal.”

Castiel knew where Crowley was going with this, and it was a point that he had long anguished about, but Castiel had been immortal for far longer than the demon. Perhaps it was because he was created for immortality, but he’d never been lonely – not before he’d met Dean. On the contrary, most of his immortal lifespan he’d spent in bewonderment, for the mortal beings his father had created, for the ice, the rocks and the crystals he and his brothers played and experimented with, for the ever evolving creatures inhabiting the earth and for the ever-singing grace of his beloved brothers and sisters. Mortal life seemed dull, dreary and awfully short in comparison. But it was not like this demon knew anything about _true_ immortality.

He held back a snort as Crowley continued his inane rambling. Immortality was not boring or lonely, but it certainly wasn’t _futile_. Not when you had a mission from _God_. But then again, Crowley only lived because he feared death – of course one’s existence would then seem futile. But that had little bearing on Castiel, who had only gained more things to live for ever since he’d rebelled from heaven and joined the Winchesters’ side.

If there was one thing that immortality had given Castiel, it was patience.

“– Never able to connect to him, because he is human, and you are not. And when he eventually dies, you will still be here, alone, lost…”

“When Dean eventually dies, I’ll be happy to guide him to heaven, where he belongs.” Castiel interrupted Crowley abrasively, “And there I will watch over him, for eternity. Meanwhile, I will also be able to go back to earth and help Dean’s descendants through their lives, and other people who might need my help. And even when the world is so perfect humanity won’t need my guidance and protection any longer and my presence on earth is truly futile, I will rejoin the choirs of heaven and sing and rejoice with my brothers and sisters.”

“You sound awfully sure of that for someone who killed thousands of his own siblings.” Crowley sneered.

“ _That_ is the point of immortality,” Castiel sniped back, “I have sinned, fallen and committed atrocities to heaven for which I will need to atone at least a million years before I may be accepted back into the flock, but at least I _have_ a million years to atone.” The angel looked at the former King of Hell condescendingly. “You were born in… what was it? 15th century? 16th century? Oh yeah, 1661, _17_ _th_ _century B.C._ , plus – let’s say, 150 hell years? – that makes you five hundred years old. You have _no_ conception for what a million years _is_. So please, _do_ shut up about immortality.”

“Back to being the high-and-mighty angel of the Lord again, are we? Good to know that being that stuck-up bitch’ personal puppet brought back Castiel, the original make. Though that _does_ make me wonder what that says about you angels in the first place.”

“No matter what things may be wrong in heaven, _you_ of all creatures do not have the right to criticize us!” Castiel barked sharply from his chair, trying to set the _stain_ on the other side of the room on fire with just his vessel’s eyes – like he could with the eyes of his true form. Sadly, his vessel still was merely human, and its glare – though it was fierce and frightening – did not have the same satisfying effect.

In stead, Crowley had the gall to smile at the locked down and severely warded angel. “Touchy, touchy!” he admonished, “I didn’t know you still cared! Or is being _chained to a chair_ down here like a _volatile, dangerous maniac_ working on your nerves? How long have they been keeping you in here anyway? They haven’t visited since they brought me down. _Are_ you actually here of your own volition, or are you just another _creature_ captured by the Winchesters that they don’t know what to do with?”

Castiel gritted his teeth. He should’ve gone with his initial idea and just ignored the blight sitting at the other side of the room. “ _You are the essence of evil itself. Your opinion of me or the Winchesters does not concern me._ ”

“Ouch, that hurts, you know? I have actual feelings since those Winchesters managed to _ruin_ me.”

That was the moment Dean opened the hidden, fortified door to the dungeon with a deafening rattle and carefully shuffled in. He was carrying a stretcher holding Sam; their time-traveling grandfather Henry carrying the other end. They gently placed Sam on the single large work table in the room.

“Is Moose gonna live here too?” Dean ignored him and turned his worried eyes to Castiel instead, though Henry gave the trapped Crowley an uneasy glance.

“Is it wise to do this in front of a demon?”

“Crowley’s harmless.” Dean said, the same moment Castiel offered, “I think I’ve been out of Naomi’s influence for long enough now to silence the demon without endangering Sam.” Crowley gave Dean an offended look for his comment, then narrowed his eyes at Castiel in suspicion.

Dean just exchanged a weary glance with Henry, seeming to dread whatever he would be asking next. Suddenly Castiel’s concern peeked. Sam was laying awfully still and seemed awfully pale, the trials of God had brought the younger Winchester to the brink of death; it was clear what Dean was about to ask.

“We were hoping we could risk freeing you so you could heal Sam, Cas.” Dean’s voice sounded hoarse; tired.

Cas swallowed. It was a very human, unnecessary gesture; but Castiel had changed a lot from the practical, to-a-fault-devoted angel he had been only a few years ago.

“You know I already tried healing Sam’s sickness from the trials; it didn’t work then, what makes you think I’d be able to now?” Castiel gently reminded the elder brother. Henry looked resigned, most likely he had already told Dean the same thing, but Dean got that stubborn look in his eye. Nothing was going to stop him from trying to save his brother.

“Well, you can’t make him any worse either.” Dean pointed out mulishly as he and Henry started carefully undoing his chains.

Castiel guessed he was safe enough at the moment. He had not been transported back to the white room since he had entered the dungeon several weeks ago, not even after they had removed the probes from his ears and let his vessel’s eardrums grow back. The room’s warding was blocking Naomi’s influence well enough – as long as he was disconnected from angel radio, he should not form a danger to the Winchesters. Still, Henry had a lighter and another of his feathers at the ready, to knock out Castiel at a moment’s notice, and Castiel nodded at him in appreciation.

Castiel was unshackled and free to move from the chair now, though they double checked the runes that bound his wings and dulled his senses. Crowley had wisely fallen silent – knowing better than to provoke Castiel any further now that the angel could freely move again – and Castiel stepped towards the desk, where Sam lay breathing shallowly.

Castiel held his hands over Sam’s chest, seeking out the injuries and feeling for the taint that had caused them. While he still found he could do little against the tarlike sickness that stuck to Sam’s soul like it had always been part of it, he also found physical injuries – damaged lung tissue, anemia – which were easy to resolve even in his weakened state. When he was done Sam breathed a little more deeply and his heart beat a little more strongly, and he heard Dean letting out a deep breath in relief.

“I can do nothing against the sickness,” Castiel informed him as he gently comforted Sam’s suffering soul, “No angel can, not without burning Sam’s soul itself, but I can keep him alive as he’s slowly healing. I don’t know how long it will take before Sam is back at full strength,” – it could be months, years, perhaps even longer than a human’s normal lifespan, but he would not crush Dean’s hope before he knew more – “but I do know his soul is fighting back, the only thing I can do is encourage him.”

“That’s gotta be enough for now.” Dean decided, and it seemed that indeed they had no other choice.

“It doesn’t need to be.” Crowley edged cautiously, flinching back at the heated glares he received, but continuing his offer nonetheless, “I could perhaps do a thing or two to help your friend here; as a demon, but I might have also a few other tricks up my sleeve. My mother was a witch, you know, and a very powerful one.”

“Shut it, demon.” Castiel growled, taking a menacing step forwards. Crowley opted to ignore the threat for now, in favor of trying to prove his potential usefulness to Dean.

“I’m just saying – even though I’ll freely admit I don’t hold a _candle_ to your angel friend when it comes to _killing_ and _smiting_ – another type of magic might just do the trick.” He cast a quick glance to Castiel, estimating the risk of being stabbed in the neck for his next comment, “After all, so far I have heard no guarantee that Sam might wake up _in this_ _lifetime._ ”

Castiel seethed and Crowley saw the countless eyes of his true form turn a flat, chilling shade of scarlet as his pupils slitted as those of a snake, but Dean – entirely unaware of the intimidating display – simply halted the angel with an arm raised in front of his chest.

“Keeping him alive is enough for now, we’ll see what we do next if Sam doesn’t wake up.”

Dean then sighed and pulled his hand through his hair, reminding Castiel of how exhausted his friend was. The angel raised a hand in an offer to take his tiredness away, but Dean shook his head; now Sam’s life was out of immediate danger, he was looking forward to a good night of sleep.

Dean glanced at Henry. “I guess we can’t move Cas to one of the bedrooms, can we?”

Castiel shook his head. “It wouldn’t be safe.” he told him. However much it irked him to be locked in here in the demon’s presence, he would not risk the Winchesters’ safety for his own comfort. Naomi was still out there; they could not afford to be careless.

Dean nodded, accepting the situation as inevitable, before giving a short glance to Crowley. “You need food?”

The half-humanized demon gritted his teeth before conceding. He hated his own, new, _human_ weakness, but he’d always prioritized survival over pride.

Henry offered to come back later and bring some bread and water to Crowley, so Dean could rest, and Dean gratefully took the offer. They moved Sam out of the dungeon, and after a last, apologizing glance at Castiel Dean locked the warded door tightly.

**Author's Note:**

> You might have noticed that the Supernatural story line is a direct follow-up of another fanfiction somewhere on this site. I'd like to give that other writer some credit, as his/her work is great, but I can't find it anymore. So, if you know which fic I'm talking about, please let me know so I can give everyone their due credit.


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